Archives for December 2012

Not that we need excuses to tip a few, but New Year’s Eve is usually on the festive end of the spectrum, so it’s an ideal time to get pickled. Naturally, everyone spends most of the time leading up to that first bubbly warning us about things we should avoid. Yes, we’re all aware that we shouldn’t drink and drive. Nor should we drink and purge–before midnight, at least. These go without saying. Nobody bothers to tell us things we should do. Well, allow me.

The first drink you order is critical. Find an attractive bartender, order a simple drink (something on the rocks, excluding peach schnapps), pay cash, and leave a 100% tip. This will set you up nicely for the rest of the evening when bar-blockers impede your path. Subsequent orders should be placed on a credit card, and the size of the final tip should depend upon the return on your initial investment.

Always carry a portable bar. Men, those inside pockets on your jackets are ideal for flasks and tiny bottles. Ladies, depending on the size of your purse, you could get an entire family inebriated. I recommend avoiding anything under 80-proof. You want the best bang for your unspent-at-the-bar buck. Clear liquids work best. I’d go with vodka, gin, rum, or tequila. Every time your beverage drops to 50%, hit the restroom stall and crack open one of those bad boys. Each trip saves you $10. That shit adds up.

Make sure you eat. My recent favorite is warm dates, stuffed with blue cheese, wrapped in bacon. If the host is unsophisticated, simply avoid anything with spinach and you should be fine. I’d avoid raw oysters and clams too, just in case you lose count of shots you’ve done, and wind up kneeling on a porcelain porch.

Hang around same-gender people who are older and less attractive as well as opposite-gender people who are lovely. This will give a wonderfully false impression, and make people wonder what’s so great about you. Curiosity opens many doors, seemingly closed by genetics.

Most importantly, you must position yourself very close to someone you’d like to kiss at midnight. It’s best if that someone is sans spouse, and a notch above your usual conquests. It’s a new year; you must have high ambition. If she’s cute and slightly teary-eyed while forcing a smile during the countdown, she’s an ideal target. She’s probably sad that she doesn’t have a special someone, and her friends are annoying the tinkle out of her with all the PDA with their new boos. Get close when the count is at ten, make eye contact at five, and lean in for a smooch at zero. Cover your nads with your left hand, just in case.

After the ball drops, you have an important decision to make. If you’re stuck driving, it’s best to leave at 12:01 or plan on sleeping in your car. If not, get your drunk on. Dancing will help the alcohol take effect sooner. Raise your hands up in the air, but check your armpits for sweat and deodorant stains before you do. This is also an ideal time for drug experimentation, especially if you have a hotel room. Begin rehearsing your first excuse of 2013, “I don’t recall anything except that I was quite drunk at the time.”

The big guy in the sky was none too pleased with my last blog post. I tried to explain (lie) my way out of it to no avail. I was mindful to write the post after Christmas so Santa wouldn’t shun me. It’s too late for him to repossess my Cakebread Chardonnay, as it was inhaled along with a fine dish of gnocchi. Still, God interrupted my Game of Thrones marathon by materializing and giving me a stern talking to.

“What the hell is wrong with you, son?”

“Huh?”

“You can’t go around writing mean things.”

“But, I was kidding … kind of.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you have enough spiritual people writing kumbaya stuff? You need someone like me to balance things.”

“Sounds like you’ve been speaking to that naughty angel friend of mine.”

“Who, Lucy? Well, sure, we chat from time to time. I try to catch him when he isn’t so wasted. He’s a violent drunk.”

“Indeed. Look, just write something nice. You’ll never get a date when women read your silly rants about vaginas.”

“Fine. Hello, Marilyn. I’m pleased to meet you. Your skin is smooth and radiant, like a calm sea at sunrise.”

“Meh. Not bad.”

“Can I see your boobies now?”

“No! Bad boy!”

“Sorry.”

“You need to appreciate women for more than their sexuality.”

“I do.”

“Do you have any close female friends you don’t want to sleep with?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“…”

“Can I use a lifeline?”

“See? This is a prime example of your irreverence. That sweet Christian woman simply questioned your beliefs, or lack thereof, and you went all medieval on her.”

“She hurt my pride and ego by rejecting me simply because I don’t wear any torture relics around my neck. She deserves an ingrown hair in her armpit, at minimum.”

“I’ll do the punishing around here. Now, tell her you’re sorry.”

“But, Dad …”

“I’m waiting.”

“All right. Dear Christian chick, I’m sorry I wished vaginal calamities upon you. I hope you have a wonderful whatever-it-is-you-believe this weekend.”

“And?”

“And if you would be so kind as to forgive me, I’d like to treat you to a fermented beverage and my penis.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Not kill me and cast me into hell fires and eternal damnation?”

“Oh, that would be insufficient punishment.”

“OK, what do you have in mind?”

“I’m going to see to it that you continue falling in love with women who reject you and vice versa.”

“That’s mean!”

“You must repent, my son.”

“Fine. How many Hail Marys do you want?”

“You’re not getting off that easy. You can begin your road to redemption by calling your mother. Then, give five different women compliments tonight, none of which refer to their breasts or naughty parts.”

“All right.”

“Also, I’d like you to listen to the entire Up All Night album by One Direction.”

Some piece-of-shit bimbo … oh, I’m sorry … lovely lady, whose profile I happened to stumble across, decided to return my kindness with unkindness. Here’s how the conversation went with the closed-minded waste of nipples … sorry again … I mean, person:

“Great pics! Hope you had a nice Christmas.” Phil

“Christmas???? You are an atheist. I don’t get it. I’m a Christian. Best of luck to you.” Crusty Rotting Baby Hole (Sorry, I added that last bit.)

WTF? I wasn’t referring to my holiday. If she were Jewish (she’d be just as awful and probably pan-assed … sorry), I may have wished her a Happy Hanukkah. I don’t wish people happy birthday on my fucking birthday, do I? No, because that’s silly and self-centered to an alarming degree.

So, what right did this beastly twat (sorry) have to reject my somewhat sincere compliment and friendly greeting? All right, it is a free country, even for ignorant people with saggy boobs and gray roots (lo siento).

This pig (sorry) really screwed up my morning. Here I was, sipping my delicious mug of espresso with a light dusting of cinnamon whilst perusing my emails and, what do you know, I stumble across an unmarked speed bump. Was it what I deserved to find: a sweet greeting from Sandra B. who wants to get to know me well? Nope. It was a flippant remark from a smelly person whose chest and shoulders are probably dotted by moles from sun overexposure (sorry). I hope she’s constipated (again).

A more civilized response would have been something like:

Why, thank you. You’re too kind.

Aw, how sweet of you. Yes, I had a nice holiday.

Hey there, handsome. Your profile has lovely photos as well.

Much obliged, my sweet.

We must meet soon and taste each other.

But, no. This lonely slob (sorry) decided to select her response from the not-so-nice pile:

You’re an atheist, which means you should fucking burn for eternity and get no presents.

How dare you? May the Almighty smite thee.

If you don’t have God in your life, you are an uncivilized lump of monkey boogers. Go away.

So, you don’t believe in anything? That means you suck, and I don’t believe you. But, that doesn’t mean I’m an atheist.

Stay back or I will throw holy water and garlic at you.

Try to be a nice guy. Jeez. Well, now I’m pissed. This lumpy slab of humanity with cramps (I so hope she has cramps–bad ones. Ooh, and a migraine too) thinks she can invade my email box and return an obvious random act of kindness with venom and get away with it? Oh, hells to the no! I’ll not sit here idly and shrug off another injustice. I hope some smelly man one pew over takes her out, gets her drunk on cheap boxed zinfandel, and then proceeds to impregnate her with over-sized triplets. And, I hope she gets a UTI from him. Heck, toss in some warts. There.

People, if someone compliments you, take it. Don’t make any judgment around the level of sincerity involved. Don’t seek to determine the qualifications of the well-wisher. Just take it, bow, and say thank you. Good day.

Browse lists of top books, movies, video games, and TV shows. What are the common themes? Fitness, finance, fucking, and fighting. Fabulous! If there were a way to combine them, the creator would have a deadly potion. I’ll brainstorm plots here, perhaps inspiring someone to write it out and be the next sensation.

A chubby girl joins a gym, and hires a personal trainer. He’s an ab-tastic stud, who also happens to train MMA fighters. She decides to become a fighter. She trains, loses weight, and falls in love with her trainer. They have lots of sweaty sex. She beats up mean girls, becomes a world champion, and makes a fortune in endorsements.

A married man lets himself go, and has his beer-filled belly kicked to the curb by his wife. Let’s raise the stakes by giving him something to fight: cancer. Just when he’s about to end it all by jumping from the roof of his office building, he falls in love with a window washer. She inspires him to drink jasmine tea and take yoga. His cancer goes into remission. They screw often. He helps her create a YouTube video sensation called “Tea and Yoga.” The dollars come rolling in. His ex-wife gets none of the F-you money.

A tuba player in the high school band is ridiculed by the popular kids for being a bit oval. He’s pissed, but he also has asthma so he can’t fight. He falls in love with a flutist, who is also beefy. They begin playing beach volleyball for fun. Next thing you know, the weight starts falling off both of them. His asthma goes away. They’re discovered by a US Olympic team scout and signed. They lose their virginity simultaneously and fuck constantly on the way to winning the first co-ed gold. Huge endorsements line their pockets.

A college girl wants badly to lose her virginity, to no avail. She’s in love with the center on their basketball team, but he’s in love with a skinny bimbo cheerleader with big fake knockers and rich parents. The virgin hires a porn star to teach her how to give a blowjob. She opens a massage parlor to practice. All the yanky-cranky helps her lose weight. The center pulls a muscle and goes to see the virgin for a massage. She pulls his main muscle, and loses her virginity to him. His girlfriend walks in on them, mid-boning. The until-recently virgin beats her skanky Barbie butt. Basketball dude proposes. They marry. He’s signed by the Knicks. They star in a reality TV show and make millions.

Hey, wait a minute. I’m a fucking writer. What business do I have giving away all of my brilliant plots? Don’t you dare write any stories based on these. In fact, don’t even mention them to any of your greedy friends who might steal my ideas for their blogs. These are mine.

You don’t need to lose weight, etc. I suggest you write a cookbook. Another F: food! Hmm. How about a chick who cooks naked and loses weight in the kitchen while she prepares amazing feasts? Yes! Her cameraman gets excited. The two get intertwined while dining, and create an arsenal of gourmet meatballs. They film a new Food Network show called “Meatball Wars,” where they fight other couples … naked. Brilliant!

First, there needs to be a retraction because she’s not half his age and hasn’t been for five years. (Do your math, darling.) Second, what in sacred roadkill’s name is that thing on his head, and does it bite? Third, three words for the bride: laser teeth whitening. Fourth, the expression on the chinless dude in the background says it all.

Most women are disgusted. Most men (over 50) are jealous, yet unsurprised. I’ll bop around the shopping mall and interview some random peeps by showing them the picture and asking for their reactions.

“A young woman in line at the pretzel shop just smiled at me. I have bunions and a salty boner.”

Well, I didn’t get the insight I was hoping for. Guess I’ll need to do my own analysis. When a woman half my age hands me her vagina, I rarely ask her to marry me. In fact, I usually respond with the following ten statements:

What type of medication are you on?

I’m too old for you. Please save yourself for a young man who deserves to have his ego annihilated. Mine has already been reduced to ashes.

Does it come in a smaller size?

Who is it you think I am?

How many minutes are left before you vomit up those lemon drops you’ve been chugging?

Is your father an NRA member?

You should reconsider if biting my pillow for the next five years is worth your citizenship.

Have you considered LASIK surgery?

Is your mother single?

I apologize in advance for needing to stretch before we get busy, and a long nap afterward.

Don’t be hating on my man Wood, or any of my mature brothers. A firm cock ain’t worth much if it lives with its mother and carries only prepaid credit cards. Woodie’s conquest just goes to show you that you can’t always get what you want … but if you try sometimes, and pull out your wallet, yes, you can.

Holy crap, the world ended! It really did. No kidding. You’re just dreaming that you’re reading this.

There I was sitting on my recliner catching up on Justified episodes and all hell broke loose. I should have known it was coming because Syd and Symon (my pesky little critters) began acting funny. Syd sneaked up to my chair and swatted my elbow. (It itches now. That fucker!) Symon found a plastic gum pack wrapper and started stalking it as if he were on the beaches of Normandy. Guess I was too involved in my show to notice.

Then there was a thunderclap and a huge hand reached down from the clouds and ripped the roof off my house. I stared in amazement out of the hole overhead and saw this old dude with long white hair in a fancy gown surrounded by floating bodies carrying suitcases.

“Somehow I don’t think my home warranty is going to cover this.”

“I hate to say I told you so, but …”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nobody likes a know-it-all, even when he’s the Creator and such.”

“So, it’s safe to assume you’re not coming.”

“Oh, hell … I mean heck, no. Thank you for the invitation, though.”

“You know, things are about to get quite toasty in your neighborhood.”

“That’s cool. I’m over this marine layer thing already.”

“All right. Say, would you be interested in running things down there while I organize these floating souls?”

Then I noticed some Christian friends of mine being somewhat unchristianlike. They were giving me the finger(s) while floating upward. Pricks. I’m too mature to get involved in a “nyah, nyah” game, so I just mooned them.

Some good things are coming out of this:

Most of the Republicans are gone now.

The entire southeast section of the country (excluding Miami) is vacant.

No more suited douches banging on my door on weekends, causing a premature start to my hangover, while trying to get me to read some silly pamphlet that contains no nudity, and is therefore not something I would consider, even during my morning post-coffee dump.

I won’t need to explain the concept of dinosaurs and prehistoric man to Bible thumpers.

There will be less traffic on Sundays and a new day for bingo.

No more boring end-of-the-world movies and books.

I can finally delete that goofy R.E.M. song from my iPod playlist the way I deleted Prince’s “1999” back in 2000.

No more NASCAR.

More red wine for me.

I can cuss like a sailor without any concern about retribution. Fuckin’ A!

If you wake up tomorrow in the billowy clouds surrounded by choirs of young boys, glowing halos, and a continental buffet featuring angel food cake, go ahead and pat yourself on the back for selecting the right team. I’m going to barbecue.

I’ve tried prostitution. I was that sad puppy left in his shelter cage. All the pretty girls insisted they don’t need to pay to have sex with me. Well, that certainly was depressing. I tried wagging my tail, making sad eyes, and even posted a notice that I am up to date on my shots. Nothing.

Fuck it.

I’m going to begin jogging. Heck, maybe I’ll become an Olympian. All that testicular bounce-age should reduce my sexual urges. Soon I’ll have an ab or six–they seem to be very attractive to women, based on the top romance novel covers. I’ll begin gelling up my hair, shaving my chest, and wearing scarves with v-neck t-shirts. Hm, that may attract the other gender, and I’m not quite that fed up yet.

What’s a male prostitute to do?

I watched Gigolos on Showtime, to get some ideas. This made me want to dive into a wood chipper. How can any woman actually want, let alone pay to have sex with one of these freak-tards?

Women seem to enjoy men in suits. I could dust off a few jackets from last decade, slide on some loafers, and wrap my wrist in (fake) Rolex. Then again, that will give the impression of wealth, thus defeating the intent of finding a lovely lady to pay me to have sex with her.

This is so depressing. Pardon me while I do some online shopping. It improves my mood. Oh, how I love seeing that brown truck pull up, hearing the squeaky gate hinge followed by the flop of the box and the doorbell. BRB…

OK, I’m back. I feel a little better. What did I buy? A slow cooker and nose hair clippers. Well, you asked.

I think it was some dead CEO guy who said something to the tune of “if you act important, people will assume you are.” I didn’t read much further because, well, the guy is dead. How good can his advice be when he couldn’t even stay the fuck alive, right? Still, I bet the rest of the paragraph had something to do with sex–perhaps, “If women think you’re important, they’ll lift their skirts for you.” I can do that. I’ll act important. I’ll check my phone frequently, place an occasional blue tooth call, and demand that my personal assistants fetch me eggs and caviar. Yay, much sexage is coming my way!

[Crickets.]

Fuck.

Guess I could just pay for sex. Kind of do anyway. Gas money, movie tickets, wine, dinners, and morning after pills add up. It’s frowned-upon though. People are so distracted with buying guns, predicting who’s quarterbacking the Jets this week, and buying Lululemon pants, they probably wouldn’t notice if I bought a slice of ass or two. Heck, this could be my gift to America. My economic stimulus. If a hummingbird in California can cause a tornado in Texas, my John-ing might steer this fine (well-armed) country clear of the fiscal cliff.

Nah.

It’s no use. I’ll never make it in prostitution or marathons. Best I stick to pounding this keyboard in hopes of selling a few books, which could actually make me rich and famous and bring me lots of sex … or, not.

It’s the latest buzzword, so if you’re unfamiliar, here is what the long tail is: Strip out the bestselling, most popular, common anything and you’re left with the long tail. It’s all the rest of the stuff that people want, when they consider themselves rebels who can’t live with the popular choice. Think of shopping. 7-Eleven carries the short head due to limited shelf space. Amazon carries the long tail. The local movie theater carries the short head (new releases), while Netflix carries the long tail (e.g. documentaries).

The latest marketing tactic is to ignore the short head and go after the long tail because there’s too much competition at the top. This is why boutiques are becoming more popular. Perhaps, this is a tactic singles should employ as well.

The short head of the dating world from a man’s perspective would be blondes in their mid-twenties with big boobs, fit bodies, long hair, clear skin, and an insatiable need to have one particular penis inside them. From a woman’s perspective, the short head would be tall, dark, rich men with abs, lots of money, and talented tongues. Let’s leave those two alone deal with each other’s neuroses and investigate the long tail of tail, shall we?

My long tail woman would probably be 45-55, five to ten pounds overweight, and have slightly droopy, somewhat lopsided boobs. She’d have any hair color or style except a gray buzz cut, a few moles here and there, and the occasional desire to allow me to have sex with her even when she’s “really not in the mood.” I’ll make the long tail longer by suggesting she has no children under 18, no dogs, no dietary/religious/yoga/political obsessions, and no spouses currently living with her.

I’m a long tail fellow. I’m mature (old), sarcastic, hairy, not rich, and I own two cats.

Unfortunately, it’s difficult to get women away from the short head of men. I blame romance novels and the typical young man’s desire to dump sperm everywhere possible. Ladies, you need to stop chasing the short head. Yes, the Brads are lovely gentlemen. But, much like I get to admire, not drive Dodge Vipers, you don’t get to mount Brad. So, look for that long tail man overlooked by your competitors. Don’t fight with cougars over Twidiots. Don’t load up on Botox and wrestle with money-grubbing kittens over Blue-Pill Bill. You be you and find that diamond–nay, crystal in the rough.

Here’s another important lesson for women to learn. (Oddly, this doesn’t apply to men because we don’t date someone based on potential.) When you decide to date a long tail man, don’t try to push him into the short head. Stop changing his wardrobe and cologne. Stop begging him to come to spin class. Stop telling him he should apply for better jobs. Stop dragging him away from Thursday Night Football to have dinner with your friends and family. Stop suggesting he read the latest self-help nonsense. Keep him in the long tail or you’re going to lose him to a short head woman.

I’m sure you’re at wits’ end trying to decide what to do before French Fried Friday. Let me help.

First, you should slather (gosh, I hate that word) on a coat of SPF 50. Don’t use the spray stuff because it doesn’t go on uniformly and most winds up on the floor. You wouldn’t want someone to slip and break a wrist. I hear it’s going to be quite hot on Friday as the King of Hades rises. Make sure you hydrate. Beer counts.

If you can find a very large catcher’s mitt, that might help. It all depends on the size of the approaching meteor. A outfielder’s mitt might do. Here’s the key: When attempting to catch the meteor, try to run on the balls of your feet, not the heels, or your eyes will bounce. Also, don’t raise your glove until the last second, unless the exploding sun is in your eyes.

Men, I hope you were wise enough to stop using condoms on or about March 12th. If not, for fuck’s sake, man, begin bare-backing immediately. Who cares if you finish a bit prematurely? The shame will only last a few more days, and she won’t have sufficient time to tell all of her attractive friends you have a hair-trigger penis.

Ladies, head directly to your favorite shoe store and go nuts. If some greedy bitch gets in your way, take her purse, throw it as far away as possible, and continue shopping. Stop staring at your phone. Concentrate!

Kids, eat candy until you sneeze chocolate. You can be as obese and diabetic as you wish. The extra layers of fat might come in handy. Oh, and go kick that playground bully in the balls.

We won’t have any use for the next season of anything, so I’ll fill you in on how then end, before you end:

Dexter finally fucks his sister/ex-wife. They move to Utah, and live happily ever after until Hannah finds out. She poisons them both, then opens a marijuana dispensary.

On Homeland, Carrie continues making horrific cry faces with spit ropes, which finally repulses Brody so much that he leaves her for another man … Saul.

Ashton Kutcher and the half-wit half-man both leave Two and a Half Men. Jon Cryer continues as One Girlie Man.

Since you’re heading to the grocery store to load up on supplies, here’s some advice:

Buy the ripe fruit.

Splurge on the expensive personal lubricant.

High-sodium, thick-cut bacon is fine.

Water is for pussies. Get the Scotch.

Go ahead, ask any attractive clerk how firm her melons are … then duck.

I’d call out sick for the rest of the week. Last thing you want as that meteor enters the atmosphere is to be distracted by a sobbing idiot in the next cubicle. Don’t forget to change your voice mail, reminding callers you’re out of the office for eternity.

If you can manage to book an early morning flight Friday, go for it. Don’t check any luggage. Fuck those airline fees. Grab a window seat and you should have a great view of the impact.

Any author who says he doesn’t pay attention to reviews is lying. Same goes for celebrities who claim to never read what is written about them. Authors are forced to deal with reviews because readers do consider them when making a purchase. Poor reviews, regardless of what motivated them, hurt the author’s income directly. The effect isn’t quite so direct for actors. Tom Cruise is going to get paid, whether you like him as Jack Reacher or not.

I bring this up because I was curious why there was such a dichotomy with E. L. James’ Fifty Shades, especially book one. It seems most readers love it or hate it. I wondered if this phenomenon was going to bleed over to my parodies. It did and that bothers me. If I were selling 75,000 copies a day, like James, I would similarly not give much of a shit. Since, for me, reviews translate into sales, which translate into a dinner of hamburger and happy hour draft or chorizo penne and pinot, I need to give quite a shit. So, I tried to find the reason for the polarity of the reviews, and believe I have succeeded.

The main figure in her book is Christian, who is domineering and abusive. He makes innocent Ana do things against her will. He strips her of her privacy, innocence, and virginity. He controls her, much as he has controlled many women before her. Naturally, there’s no talk of him causing physical harm. Still, make no mistake: A man like this in your life may bring you to orgasm, but don’t be surprised when he goes too far.

As I read her books, his character angered me because the last thing I want to see is a woman turned on by a beast like Christian. We all know five years hence she’ll be telling an officer and coworkers she got the bruises from falling. She’ll defend him because his love is intense. It’s an addiction. The high is worth the pain of the prick.

So, in my books I played off this character and called him out for what he is: a disgusting, self-entitled, deranged, misogynistic animal who doesn’t know how to treat others properly. Women who love James’ books and love her Christian character, defend him by abusing me in reviews. They can’t attack my character (Mormon), because he’s a gentleman. Instead they attack his creator, without regard for the fact that my books are humorous parodies.

If these 1-star reviewers don’t find my books to be funny, I can live with that. I can’t teach funny. But, they write these hateful reviews and attack me and my trade personally, instead of being honest with themselves and other readers about why my books make them uncomfortable. They’re suffering from battered woman’s syndrome, and don’t want the man-in-the-mind exposed for what he is.

I wish I could have psychological profiles done on the reviewers. I bet the 5-star reviewers would be women who see the real Christian and refuse to submit to abuse. That’s my kind of woman: strong and intolerant of anyone attempting to control them. To you, my dears, I give SIX STARS!

Most discussions inspired by fermented grapes and such eventually degrade (dare I say upgrade?) to the topic of sex. Last night was no different, as the young ladies who graced me with their presence decided to teach me a thingy or two about penises. At first I was miffed, then I considered the likelihood that they have both seen more penises than I have. Also, they’ve certainly held more, tasted more, and so on.

“This guy I was with had one that was huge at the base then tapered down toward the tip.”

“He had a traffic cone penis?”

“Oh my god! You captured it perfectly. Yes!”

“Gosh, I hope it wasn’t orange.”

“No, but it certainly filled me in nicely.”

“Bravo.”

“I bet yours is probably bigger at the base too. I can tell by your hands.”

“What? No, actually mine is pretty uniform in girth from here to yonder. And, what the hell can you tell by my hands, anyway?”

“Hands tell a woman a lot about the man’s penis.”

“Myth.”

“Truth.”

“So, because my fingers are tapered, you assume I have a telescopic schlong?”

“I can’t explain it. Let’s just say I know what to expect when I unzip a man by the size and shape of his hands.”

“Right. And I can tell how roast-beefy your vagina lips are from the size of your purse.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Not any more than a cock-a-nalysis done from my hands.”

“Whatever. I was with this other guy who had tiny hands and stubby fingers. Guess what?”

“He was packing a Mike and Ike sized dinkie doo?”

“Yup. He barely had more than your thumb–erect.”

“You haven’t seen my thumb erect. It’s quite a clit-thumper.”

“His penis erect. Although it was half of what I’m used to, he got me off with no problem whatsoever. You know why?”

“Because he was a senator?”

“No, because it hit my g-spot perfectly.”

“See that? Those extra four inches go to waste, unless one happens to be trying to reach that spot from another port of entry.”

“Sick bastard.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There are all sorts of weenies out there. I concur. We didn’t even delve into the universe of anteater cocks. They are all of different shapes, sizes, and turgidity. Some point east; some point nor-easterly. Some have curious bends; others have frightening bumps. Naturally, they come in different colors as well. So, I suggest you ladies have it good. Popping that top button and unzipping is kind of like Christmas over and over, every time you’re with a new fellow. Sure, women are unique down there, but not quite so different. I have a good idea what to expect when I go a-digging. The moisture content varies more than the shape, size, and depth. Yet, I sure do love taking my uniformly-shaped, average-sized, very white penis on mining trips.

I notice this phenomenon more often as my years pass, probably because I catch myself doing it. No, I’m not trying to catch flies.

There are many reasons for this. If the geezer happens to also have his head tilted back and he’s squinting, chances are it’s because he can’t see and he refuses to give in to cheaters. I catch myself doing this at the grocery store as I try to decide if five cans for six dollars is any better and two cans for three. If you look closely, you’ll probably notice my lips moving too. I’m trying to read the cost per ounce and considering if I would be better off buying this shit online as I can adjust the font on my browser much easier than focus with my failing eyes.

Another time I see old farts like me with their mouths open is when they are observing a young person. We’re trying to decide if the person is a) brain damaged, b) on drugs, or c) dangerously stupid. A prime example is a rookie drinker I see drop a shot of something gross into a half-full glass of dark beer, then chug the malty mess, and slam the mug on the bar after going cross-eyed and yelling “Woooo!” This is an Ignoramus Maximus. It seems that thought can no longer cross my mind without showing in my expression.

I also find my ancient ass staring at the TV with mouth agape. These shows are most likely to get that response from me, sometimes accompanied by the first syllable of words like “Wha…” and “Bu…”:

Reality shows involving talentless people or people who used to be talented clinging on by a sad thread.

News shows constantly doing everything they can to frighten viewers.

Extreme sports in general, and wondering why it’s OK to have your children influenced by a bushy headed stoner doing three flips into a sternum smash landing, but not by a partially-exposed areola. (By the way, you can find a lovely one here, kids: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Areola).

Anything covered on the Dr. Oz Show that involves (as it far too frequently does) excrement.

My way-beyond-mature mouth also tends to hang open at the gym. Naturally, this is mistaken by nubile youngsters as a sign of sloppy lust. Perhaps. Usually, that is not the case. I’m plain fucking tired and if it weren’t for The Swedish House Mafia blaring (because I’m also going deaf) in my headphones, I’d probably curl up in a corner and nap.

On the occasion when I venture into a cubicle farm and offer my services, my antique skin sags farther as I witness what today’s office has become. There is beer … in the fucking office! Nerds wear hoodies with headphones the size of manhole covers, cuffed jeans, and flip-flops. They also don’t know how to take proper care of facial hair. Much like a lawn, if it can’t grow in without bald spots, remove it. Plus, there’s no privacy. These worker bees sit in one bunch without dividers or L-shaped cubicles. One little coffee fart squeaks out of Justin’s colon and the entire row has to be distracted.

Finally, yes, I admit it: my mouth was hanging open most of the time while I typed this. I may have dribbled also. See what you have to look forward to?

I’m not anti-marriage–not even anti-gay-marriage or anti-pet-marriage. If you want to commit to something for the rest of your life, how about eating chocolate? Showering? Breathing? Unfortunately, you are blinded by momentary bliss. You won’t listen to me. You’ll stand at that Tiffany’s counter and order the $20,000 noose.

I’ve been married. I know. It wasn’t awful, but neither was that wide-collared nylon shirt I wore in the late 70s. So, why would I campaign against such? Because they don’t work. Sure, there will be a honeymoon phase with many an orgasm. Do you honestly think that will last until the days of parallel plots? It won’t. In between, you get to deal with all sorts of annoyances including things left where you don’t want them and the desire to penetrate or be penetrated by someone else.

We’re biologically programmed to desire variety. This fucks with us.

Try to think of something you have that you only want one of and will never want another. You can’t. What’s that you say? A penis? Oh, bullshit. I have one, and I can think of a few instances where a spare would come in handy. There are also times when I’d like a different one, which would inspire a phrase I’ve never heard: “You want me to put that massive thing where? Impossible.”

If your woman is pressuring you to take that step “or else,” agree, have sex with her, then leave. There are other women who will have sex with you without demanding Princess Cut Kryptonite. True, some of them will be older, less attractive, or married. Still, it’s like that mid-morning candy bar–it gets you past the urge to do something silly.

By this point, married readers are ticked. They’re similar to that friend who insists you try the latest DVD exercise series, invest in a penny stock, or test drive a Kia. Misery loves commiseration. If you are a happily married person, congratulations. I bet it won’t last. Don’t be angry. It’s a free country, and I can place my bets as I like. The odds are in my favor.

Sometimes I’m accused of being a bitter recluse who is destined to die in wrinkled clothing and be eaten by his cats. Right. You know what won’t cause my death? Stress from:

Snoring bed-mates.

Being caught masturbating.

Toilet paper issues, including shortages, wrong-direction installation, and balled up wads of … “Fuck, I didn’t want to see that. Couldn’t you flush it?”

It was an innocent prank two Aussie DJs pulled on the Royal Family. It resulted in the apparent suicide of the nurse who put the prank call through to the Duchess.

In a bizarre twist of events, the two DJs involved in the prank were so distraught over the nurse’s suicide, they decided to take their own lives, days after being interviewed by Larry King. The DJs allegedly plunged to their deaths hand-in-hand as they jumped from a balcony in the world-famous Sydney Opera House. Then, less than an hour later, the nurse who apparently committed suicide, ran from the morgue yelling “Ha ha ha, oh my god, I got you, fuckers!”

It turns out the DJ hoax was turned around as the nurse did not take her life; she simply faked her death to “fuck with them.”

“Jesus, what a pair of silly twats those Aussies are. I was onto their shit the minute I received the call. Ha ha ha!” said the newly re-animated nurse.

This was doubly-disturbing because Larry King (who also was thought to be dead since sometime in the late 90s) became so distraught over the DJs’ co-suicide that he allegedly killed himself by drinking an entire fifth of absinthe.

It is now being reported that the executives of the radio station felt guilty about allowing the prank on the air and forcing the DJs to take the blame. These executives have allegedly gathered into a conference room, doused each other in lighter fluid, and burned themselves to a crispy death. Upon discovering the charred remains, members of the emergency response units were sickened to the point where they allegedly stabbed each other’s eyes out and bled to death. When the cleaning crew was summoned to clean up the “spill in aisle three,” they also could not stand the guilt (and smell) and decided to allegedly poison themselves by snorting window cleaner.

Wait, this just in…

Shock Jocks from across America, having felt horrible about defending the Aussie DJs, now feel stupid for defending them and falling victim to the nurse’s reverse prank. In a show of unity and humility, these jocks have allegedly taken their own lives by spilling gallons of coffee on their consoles and electrocuting themselves.

When we tried to reach The Royal Family for comment, we received more disturbing news. Kate’s fetus has allegedly ripped itself from her womb, killing the Duchess. The fetus, now referred to as King Mayapolis The Last, has allegedly hunted down her Royal Baldness (husband) and peed acid on him. He’s dead too. The Queen found this all bothersome and, in an alleged murder-suicide, smashed the fetus with a crane and then drove off a non-fiscal cliff.

More from our newsroom, just before every reporter allegedly overdosed on Ecstasy…

It seems readers of this press release have become distraught and decided it’s no use, we’re all doomed. They’re all allegedly dead.

As a consultant, I usually escape the nonsense of company holiday parties. Friends also rarely invite me to house parties since I am known to drink only the most expensive bottles, urinate on lawn decorations, and leave partially-chewed brownies in the guest bathroom sink. Yet, nary a season passes without an invitation to an Ugly Sweater party. I say, why stop at the sweater? Why not Ugly Slacks? Ugly Sneakers? Ugly Facial Hair? I think women should have a special category: Ugly Crotchless Lace Panties–the Sasquatch of clothing.

I realize the purpose of this theme is so that people can justify keeping closet shelves stocked with decade-old clothing. It’s a sort of self-deprecation strategy: “Look, I have this sweater, which I once wore, thinking it was fashionable. Silly me. Now, I save it only for these special occasions, because I have fine taste.”

Right.

When I go to these parties, sometimes I wear a ridiculous sweater, but act like I’m unaware of the party’s theme. Then, when people approach me and comment on my silly top, I react similar to how a barren chubster acts when someone asks when she’s due.

“That’s awesome, dude. Ha ha ha!”

“What?”

“Your sweater. Classic.”

“My mother bought this for me the year she died of pancreatic cancer.”

“Umm …”

“You’re mean. You shouldn’t get your jollies at someone’s expense. That’s called bullying.”

“But, this is an Ugly Sweater party, so I assumed …”

“When you assume, you make a dickheadish meaniehead of yourself.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“This is a fine sweater. It keeps my nipples toasty. If you don’t like it, you should keep your opinion to yourself. I haven’t commented on that unsightly skin tag on your neck, have I? No. Why? Because I am polite and considerate.”

At this point, I usually blow my nose on a hanky I have stuffed up the sleeve.

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Hold this for a second. Say, is there any eggnog left?”

Wouldn’t it be fun to have an Ugly Socks party? Guests would be required to tuck their slacks into their socks. Puffy ankles rule!

Better yet, I’m going to host an Ugly Guest party. Invitees will be required to venture into used clothing boutiques and Walmart to find people they can bring along to my party. I’m also going to require the guest be leashed and drink from a sippy cup. The night will culminate in a contest where the guests will be required to dance Gangnam Style while I toss insults and deviled eggs at them. (You can throw a nice curveball with a deviled egg. It’s all about the aerodynamics, people.)

How about an Ugly Child party? This has obviously been Ugly Child month as evidenced by all of the social media posts of runny-nosed kids wearing antlers and puffy jackets. Bring your smelly little monkey to my party, but leave it outside to play in the cul-de-sac, please. They tend to dirty my carpets. I promise to provide play-weapons, skates, scooters, boards, and ramps they can use to begin working on head injuries to justify the approaching therapy and drug addictions.